


Dancing Blades

by Serena_ish



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Eisenbright, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Erhardt's a pretty boy, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Bad At Summaries, Insecurity, Jealousy, M/M, Minor Injuries, Multiple Chapters To Come, Oblivious Cyrus Albright, Olberus, Pining, Slow Burn, Spoilers for Cyrus and Olberic's chapter 2's, Spoilers for Cyrus's chapter 3, it's basically my interpretation of Olberic's chapter 3, main focus is Olberic and Cyrus, spoilers for Olberic's chapter 3, spoilers for therion's chapter 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-06-10 12:59:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19504453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serena_ish/pseuds/Serena_ish
Summary: Wellspring brings with it tough choices and familiar faces. Olberic is faced with a difficult decision and Cyrus comes into contact with the unfamiliar feeling of self-doubt as he tries to stifle his jealousy in support of his lover.(an in-dept look at Olberic's chapter three and all the emotions that come with it).





	1. 1. Green Eyes.

“That’s Erhardt?” Tressa murmured in disbelief once the last Lizardman was cut down.  


Cyrus blinked at the blond man centred in the large hollow of the cave before them, practically glowing among the entangled bodies that surrounded him. He flicked a speck of blood off of his cream-coloured cheek with a dainty gloved hand, causing Tressa the quake.  


“I didn’t imagine him being so… being so…” she trailed off, turning red as Primrose let out a sultry laugh to the side of them.  


“You didn’t imagine him being so gorgeous?” she finished, gazing over at Erhardt and licking her pink lips. Tressa, if possible, blushed even deeper than before as she tried to stutter a response.  


“He might be nice to look at, but he seems to be as skilled with a blade as Olberic,” Alfyn cut in from somewhere behind them. He sounded nervous, aware of the possibility of a dual. They had felt the tension pouring off of Olberic all day, the feeling growing stronger as they approached the cave. If they did dual, it would be an even match. Cyrus frowned as he watched Olberic turn to Erhardt with his fists clenched, offering him a stiff greeting and a quick explanation with his breath drawn in tight. Erhardt pushed his hair back and sheathed his sword, watching Olberic with softened eyes. He looked like the sun. Golden hair framed his face that Cyrus spitefully thought resembled the Holy figures depicted in Ophilia’s religious texts. Truly angelic. And Olberic standing next to him…  


They were opposites. Erhardt dainty, pale and youthful still, while Olberic stood taller, darker, weather-worn from the eight years since the fall of Hornburg. Opposites; yet they looked right standing next to each other. Balanced. Cyrus felt a twist in his gut as the two spoke words too quietly for anyone else to hear.  


He felt relief, followed by a wave of guilt, as the echoing cries of more enraged Lizardmen silenced Erhardt and Olberic’s conversation. His guilt reverberated further into his stomach at the stress, the anguish that marred Olberic features as he pulled himself away from Erhardt to follow the sound.  


“That sounded close, I didn’t think they would venture this far,” Cyrus heard Erhardt say as he once again unsheathed his sword, “those sound like the leaders of the horde. If we slay them, the rest should be easy to disperse.”  


He spoke in a voice that seemed too rugged for his appearance. As controlled and experienced as Olberic’s. A true knight. It was to Cyrus a stark reminder that, despite their difference in appearance, they were cut from the same cloth. They had grown together, fought together, shared an identity. Cyrus’s teeth dug into his bottom lip. He was suddenly unable to look at the pair of them standing so close together.  


“I’ll take the right,” Olberic said, looking over to where Cyrus and the others stood, “we should split up. Tressa and Alfyn, if you come with me. Primrose and Cyrus, if you could both accompany Erhardt.”  


Cyrus felt his mouth turn to sand as he looked from Olberic’s pleading eyes to Erhardt’s more sceptical ones. He could almost feel Primrose quiver in delight next to him.  


“Do you think you can handle it?” Erhardt asked. Those narrow, green eyes of his felt piercing as they took in Cyrus’s scholarly attire and wooden staff with a frown.  


“Of course I can,” Cyrus said, trying to bite back his irritation at being questioned. Although he was filled with a sudden urge to rip his Royal Academy cloak off and to swap his staff for a sword that he knew he would not have the physical strength to wield. Meeting Erhardt’s calculated stare made him feel… inferior. The feeling was foreign to him as it coiled in his chest, in his stomach, forcing him to once again look away from Erhardt. Primrose pulled out her dagger in a flash that mimicked her smile, giving Erhardt a twirl that spun the sheer fabric of her dancing gear.  


“Oh, don’t worry Ser Erhardt, we can most certainly look after ourselves.”  


Erhardt seemed to relax at the way Primrose spiralled the hilt of her father’s dagger gracefully between her fingers, showing off her obvious skill with it. Cyrus’s own hands begun to feel restless, begging him to draw a blade, ready his staff, kindle his fire magic. Anything. He watched the way Erhardt’s blade glinted smooth silver against the lanterns and his staff felt almost useless in comparison. The only other weapon in his possession was a dagger, stolen off of a thief by a thief and gifted to Cyrus as a last resort, just in case something withstood his magic. But nothing had yet withstood his magic, so he had never had the opportunity to use it. The hilt felt wrong pressed against his palm, and although Primrose and Therion had told him over and over to just ‘get em with the sharp end’, he was sure that if he ever did need to use it, he would not wield it correctly.  


Another roar. Closer this time. It rumbled Cyrus’s eardrums and caused an unfamiliar sense of panic to dampen his palms. He looked over at Olberic, but Olberic was looking at Erhardt, his expression unreadable.  


“Once it is done, we will reconvene back here,” he said, Cyrus supposed it was meant for everyone, but Olberic’s focus did not waver from Erhardt, “try not to get yourself killed.”  


Guilt, pain, and longing merged across Erhardt face. He gave Olberic a soft, sad smile. “Aye, likewise, Olberic.”  


And with that they split, Alfyn’s farewell to them getting lost somewhere in the rushing of Cyrus’s mind as he blindly followed Erhardt deeper into the cave.


	2. 2. Blizzard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cyrus struggles to control his magic. Minor descriptions of violence/blood. Nothing major, but worth a mention just in case.

The battle was quicker than anticipated, and he and Primrose were almost obsolete. Erhardt’s blade danced through the battle and the bodies of the Lizardmen. Erhardt himself moved with such grace and precision that he almost rivalled Primrose, who remained at Erhardt’s side throughout the battle, her own blade moving too quickly to see. Cyrus hovered behind them, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. It never seemed to come. Frost crept up his arms as the ice magic grew impatient under his skin.

He wished he had gone with Olberic. He didn’t understand why Olberic had sent him with Erhardt, who didn’t seem to understand that he needed to break the Lizardmen, to open that window of opportunity for Cyrus to strike and strike well. He and Olberic fought well together, falling into a comfortable routine of Olberic weakening the enemy and Cyrus finishing them off. Cyrus watched as Erhardt spilt the insides of one of the larger Lizardmen, his stance mirroring that of Olberic’s. He pictured them next to each other, on some imagined battlefield somewhere ten years prior. Brothers-in-arms. Maybe he and Olberic didn’t have such a strong fighting routine after all in comparison. 

He finally got his moment. Primrose slashed upwards and span back, her unique magic washing over him as she performed the Peacock Strut. If his magic had been restless before, it was screaming at him now. Icy wind circled him as the frost gnawed its way through his body. Erhardt must have felt it, felt the air turn cold because he glided to the side with one last slice at the Chief, causing it to falter just in time for Cyrus’s magic to hit. 

Therion had more than once cursed him for using his magic so recklessly, for having little to no restraint as it burst from his fingertips and obliterated anything in its path. Cyrus had studied magic, used magic for as long as he could remember, but never before this journey had he ever have to use it with such power, to hurt, to kill. Because of this he was still somewhat inexperienced with controlling it, with keeping his emotions out of the casting. He could feel the lack of control now. The magic was a separate being from himself, desperate for a release. He gave it one. Great shards of ice ripped from his fingers, impaling the last remnants of the shrieking Lizardmen and encasing their Chief. The air itself felt as if it froze around him as his magic clawed its way out from under his skin, making him bite down on his tongue to stop himself from crying out. But still, it kept coming. Primrose had jumped backwards, with Erhardt only just managing to avoid being impaled himself. Cyrus was glad that Therion wasn’t here now. He wouldn’t hear the last of it. 

It ended in a frost. Cyrus stood shivering in a cold silence that was broken only by the creaking of the giant ice structure that he had created and the blood of the impaled Lizardmen trickling down the shards and pattering onto the ground. Erhardt let out a soft whistle, his breath coming out in a mist. 

“I’ve never seen anything like that before.” 

Cyrus took a ragged breath, the cold biting at his lungs as he did so. He already felt the fatigue start to settle in. He had used too much too quickly. Too much, and his body wasn’t used to it. He stood desperately still in hopes that his knees weren’t shaking beneath him. Primrose’s arm snaked around him, making his flinch slightly at the sudden contact. She must have known that he went too far. She had seen him used magic countless times. She knew his limits; knew he had gone over them. Although her arm looked nothing more than a friendly touch, she was keeping him standing, keeping him still. She gave him a small, comforting squeeze before looking at Erhardt and flashing a grin. 

“If you think that’s impressive, you should see what he can do with fire.” 

“I don’t think I would survive that encounter,” Erhardt chuckled, sheathing his sword and offering them a smile that Cyrus couldn’t look directly at. 

“I doubt you would either,” Primrose laughed playfully, although Cyrus could feel the concern in her touch as she kept her arm latched firmly around him. Erhardt looked down the dark passage of the cave, his smile faltering slightly. 

“Let us make haste. Hopefully Olberic and the others were as successful in their encounters as we were in ours.” 

Erhardt’s words made Cyrus painfully aware once again of the silence that surrounded them. The silence that meant there were only two outcomes of Olberic, Tressa, and Alfyn’s battle. Either they had found victory or… or they had not. 

They were all more than capable, especially Olberic, but Cyrus couldn’t shake the gnawing of doubt in him mind. He wished again that he had gone with Olberic. He took another ragged breath as he swallowed the tangle of feelings back down his throat, grateful that Primrose had not released him from her grip as they made their way through the darkness and back to the meeting point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I hope you are all enjoying this piece so far. I am hoping to update again tomorrow. Any and all feedback is appreciated. Thanks!


	3. 3. Old Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olberic confronts Erhardt. Major spoilers for Olberic's chapter 3.

Cyrus’s legs nearly gave out completely at the sight of Olberic, Tressa and Alfyn waiting for them quietly in the cave hollow. They looked sweaty and bloodied but relatively unscathed, if but a little stressed. Primrose tightened her grip around him and beckoned Alfyn over discretely with her free hand.

“You slew yours too, I see,” Erhardt said once they were in earshot. Olberic eyed him grimly, his jaw winding tighter shut with each step closer Erhardt took. 

“Aye,” he said, although he looked like he wanted to say more. His eyes were full of that emotion Cyrus couldn’t quite place. Primrose forced Cyrus to sit on a small bolder as Alfyn started to get handsy, palming Cyrus’s clammy brow and trying to feel the rate of his heartbeat from pinching his wrists. 

“You pushed yourself to far, Prof,” he muttered so only the three of them could hear, “why did ya’ do that?” 

“I am fine, I merely… miscalculated,” it wasn’t entirely a lie, but it did little in easing the concern pulling at his companions faces. 

“If this is about Olberic and – ” 

“I can assure you that it is not,” Cyrus snapped, surprising himself and causing Alfyn to withdraw. 

Guilt swept over him once again. Never had he been so rude to any of his travel companions, but something was stopping the apology from leaving his tongue. 

“Surely your skills would be more beneficial to the others,” he said instead, glancing over to Tressa who was watching Olberic and Erhardt with widening eyes. Cyrus slowly, reluctantly, followed her gaze. 

“Well none of us really sustained any injuries and you – ” 

Alfyn was once again interrupted. This time it was Olberic, his voice booming off of the cave walls, full of conviction. 

“Draw your blade, Erhardt.” 

Cyrus felt the earth disappear beneath him. 

Tressa darted over to them, trembling and gripping onto Alfyn’s shirt as he swore, pulling his attention from Cyrus to Olberic and looking as if he had half a mind to intervene. Cyrus doubted Olberic would even notice if he tried to do so. Primrose remained as unreadable as ever, but Cyrus felt her and grip his upper arm, her nails burying into the fabric of his cloak. 

“You don’t have to do this, Olberic,” Erhardt said, slowly, cautiously. 

But Olberic’s blade was already drawn, his face was set. Cyrus watched him, unable to slow his shallow breathing as his burnt-out magic began to spark desperately at his fingertips. Olberic didn’t even glance at them, at Cyrus as he approached Erhardt. Cyrus was beginning to wonder if he even existed at all. The floor felt like air and the air felt solid and the only thing he had that reminded him that he was there, and this was happening was Primrose’s fingers digging into his bicep. 

“I can end it for you, all of it!” Olberic snarled, causing Cyrus to flinch. He had never seen that anger, that hurt on Olberic face before. Had never heard his voice shake like that. He never wanted to again. 

“The pain, your anger, your regret… this lie that your life has become!” 

Erhardt watched him carefully, making no move for his own blade. He stood motionless and took it all unblinking. 

“My king is dead! My countrymen…” Olberic paused, took a deep breath and recollected himself slightly, “what does that make me? I swore my life to protect them and you! Of all people…” he took another breath as the tremors in his voice became more apparent, his knuckles whitening around the hilt of his sword. “What does that make me? Gods, do you know how many years that question has plagued me?” 

It finally clicked. This wasn’t about Erhardt, not really. This was about Olberic. His purpose. His loss. Cyrus let the realisation wash over him and almost felt foolish for taking this long to figure it out. Olberic was panting, his eyes wild and pained as he stood with his blade still pointing at Erhardt, jerking slightly with each erratic breath. Cyrus nearly forced himself up and over to Olberic, to do something, anything, to take that look off of his face. But he knew his legs wouldn’t support him. He knew this was something that Olberic had to do. Even if it filled him with dread. Erhardt was still watching, still silent, still full of sorrow. 

“Olberic I – ” 

“It was a lie!” 

Cyrus only realised how badly he was shaking when Primrose tightened her grip to steady him. 

“But at long last I understand, that I never lost my worth,” Olberic seemed to compose himself suddenly at the words. Where his hands were shaking, they now held still as his voice flooded with a new found calm. He was ready. Ready for battle. Cyrus tried and failed to ready himself as well. 

“I won’t stand here and pretend to understand what you did. And I can’t find room in my heart to forgive you. I only find…” 

Olberic trailed off, mirroring Erhardt’s sorrow. Cyrus watched them in a daze, his memory dragging him back to overhearing some of his female students speak to each other of heartbreak and lost love and never understanding, never knowing… But he could see it now, written over the faces of the two knights that stood before him, filling the air between them. 

“I should have killed you that day,” Olberic said in barely more than a whisper, Erhardt gave a shadow of a nod, “I could have saved everything, my king, my home, I could have saved you from becoming a monster.” 

Olberic drew himself up to his full height, his sword pointing towards Erhardt’s chin. Unwavering. Unbending. 

“Hear me Erhardt. This time, I will not lose. Draw your blade!” 

Erhardt sighed deeply before letting out a bitter laugh, pushing his golden hair out of his face as he did so. Still, he did not reach for his blade. 

“I would tell you to learn from my mistakes, but what right have I to do that?” 

He looked away from Olberic, down to his feet, over to where Cyrus and the others stood shaking. Cyrus caught a flash of green eyes before Erhardt drew them away quickly. His hand finally rested on the hilt of his sword. 

“Nay. We’ll do it your way. No holding back, eh old friend?” 

Olberic didn’t so much as glance over to them. He didn’t look anywhere expect directly into Erhardt’s hardening face. 

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” 

There was a brief moment of silence that pushed against Cyrus’s eardrums before the cave exploded with the clash of steel upon steel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, I hope you enjoy this chapter! Nearly all of the dialogue spoken by Olberic and Erhardt in this chapter was taken directly from the game. This was one of my favourite cut scenes in the game and I hope I expanded on it here in a way that does it justice. I am at work for the next three days, so updates might be a little slower. I will try and get some writing for this done on lunch breaks and after work.   
> Once again, any and all feedback is appreciated. Thanks!


	4. 4. Cross-strike

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minor descriptions of blood/injury.

They were evenly matched. Perfectly matched. It took a while before either of them landed a hit on each other. Each time their blades met Cyrus felt the sparks travel from his fingertips and up his spine, felt Primrose’s grip grow tighter and tighter.

Olberic landed the first hit. The tip of his blade caught skin and sliced Erhardt’s shoulder, tearing the scarlet material of his tunic and nipping at the leather of his chest piece. It was a shallow cut, but it started to bleed immediately. Cyrus felt Alfyn twitch besides him, fingers reaching instinctively for his satchel. If the pain bothered Erhardt at all, he didn’t show it. He barely seemed to notice as he parried Olberic’s next swing, and then the one after that. 

Erhardt stole the air from Cyrus’s lungs with a slash across Olberic’s chest, drawing a thin red line through blue fabric. Olberic let out a small grunt and Alfyn began to fidget. Primrose was gripping his arm so tightly now he doubted there was any blood reaching his hand at all. Olberic shook it off, not even looking down at the damage done and went back in strong, their blades meeting with a sound that made Tressa cover her ears and bile dance on Cyrus’s tongue. 

Each clang of their swords meeting brought Cyrus back to Victors Hollow, to that arena he didn’t want to be in, half concentrating on his magic and half watching Olberic with wide-eyes as he parried and swung and cut down men effortlessly. Cyrus had pictured him then as a wall of stone that no blade could penetrate, but now… He lacked the same control on his face, the same blank calculation. With each swing his face filled with a different emotion. Unbending yes, but unbreaking? Cyrus was no longer as confident in that truth. 

Olberic landed another hit, took another hit. Alfyn was now fully rooting through his satchel, pulling out tonics and bandages with fumbling hands and swearing. Cyrus couldn’t quite process the blood blossoming across Olberic’s tunic, now ripped at the shoulder. It was only when Primrose jerked away from him that he noticed the sparks jittering at his fingertips. 

Another clash of steel and Primrose latched onto him again, her hand gripping his so hard it suffocated his magic and compressed his bones. He hardly felt her. 

Erhardt almost faltered at the blood now soaking Olberic’s chest. Almost, but he moved quickly enough to parry Olberic’s next hit. Not quite fast enough to land one of his own. If Cyrus believed he was of sound-enough mind to analyse the look on Erhardt’s face, he would have said he was scared. Of being slain or slaying, he couldn’t say. 

It ended as quickly as it started. Cyrus barely had time to register the loud grunt of pain, the sound of steel clanging against the ground alongside Erhardt – 

“I yield,” Erhardt panted, making no attempt to move for his sword. He looked up at Olberic, wide-eyed, and repeated himself, “I yield.” 

Olberic was posed to strike, to kill. He held himself deadly still apart from the heavy rise and fall of his chest. His features contorted as he looked down at Erhardt. Neither of them moved. No one but Olberic breathed as they awaited his decision. 

He lowered his sword. Slowly and unsurely at first but then he angled the tip towards the ground and stabbed it into the earth. He wiped his brow and swallowed hard, his eyes locking with Erhardt’s before he reached out to him with a shaking hand. Erhardt took it cautiously. 

“I fought with all my strength,” Erhardt said hoarsely, his hand not leaving Olberic’s. 

“I know.” 

“For as long as I can remember, I regret nothing.” 

“Aye.” 

Their hands remained entwined for a short moment before a lump in Olberic throat made him pull away and turn to them, to Cyrus, giving him a weary smile. Alfyn took this as his cue and darted towards them, his hands full of bandages as he muttered under his breath. Cyrus remained still for a moment, untrusting of his legs to keep him upright. 

“Come on,” Primrose breathed, hoisting him up. The earth swayed beneath him, but he took a few trembling steps forward, trying desperately to keep himself looking calm, collected, presentable at the very least. For the first time since entering the cave, since finding Erhardt, Olberic’s eyes met Cyrus’s, and Cyrus was sure that however well he was trying to appear composed, Olberic could see directly though him. 

For once he just couldn’t find the words. None came as Olberic made towards him with his eyes crinkling at the corners, his calloused hands gripping Cyrus’s shoulders and squeezing. Cyrus feared that if he did open his mouth he may vomit, or whimper, or something equally as humiliating so he kept his jaw clamped shut even as his lips began to tremble. 

“Cyrus,” Olberic began softly, thumbing a strand of his dark hair out of his face. The sound of his name on Olberic’s tongue, the touch his palms still slick from gripping his blade so tightly made Cyrus’s jaw almost fall slack. He fought to keep it wound shut, his teeth grinding with the effort. Olberic looked as if he was forming his own words when Alfyn pushed between them, pulling at the torn fabric that framed the cut across Olberic’s chest. 

“For the love of Gods Olberic, let me dress this wound!” 

Olberic chuckled slightly and obeyed, releasing Cyrus from his grip as Alfyn began to work. Once the blood had been washed away the wound looked less server, although Alfyn said he would still need to see to it with a needle and thread back at the Inn. It still seeped lightly with blood, so Alfyn constructed a pad out of wrapped bandages and held it over the wound, eyeing the blood on Erhardt nervously as he did so. 

“Cyrus, hold this down on Olberic’s wound for a moment, will you? I wanna get a look at Erhardt.” 

Cyrus yanked himself out of his daze and gingerly slipped his hands onto the makeshift dressing as Erhardt began to protest against Alfyn’s fussing. No blood pushed though the cloth, but Cyrus couldn’t find it in himself to relax, just as he could keep the tremors from shaking his fingers. Olberic’s hand fell under his chin, angling Cyrus’s face upwards to meet his. 

“You do not look well,” he said softly. 

He had to say something. Anything. He swallowed what felt like a boulder before he trusted himself to speak. 

“I am fine, Olberic. Please, do not worry yourself over me,” he paused, swallowed again, “it is really I who should be worrying about you.” 

It took most of his concentration to keep the tremors spreading from his hands and to his voice. Olberic gave him a gentle smile, his fingers drifting from Cyrus’s chin back down to his shoulder, his grip steadying his trembling body. 

“We both emerged unscathed,” Olberic said. 

Cyrus supposed this was meant to be reassuring, but he felt a knife-edge twist in his gut as Olberic’s eyes wondered over to Erhardt as he said it. Perhaps that’s why he said in a sharper tone than usual – 

“Yes. The two of you faired quite well against each other indeed.” 

Olberic met his eyes again, questioning the sudden edge to his words. Cyrus shifted his weight, and then his attention, suddenly preoccupied with the bandages under his hands. He prayed to Alephan that Alfyn would finish with Erhardt and come and take over, he was desperate to withdraw back into himself to escape Olberic’s troubled stare. When they first entered the cave, when they had first seen Erhardt mid-battle with that golden hair of his flowing around him as if he were not a knight in battle but a dancer on a stage, Cyrus had been desperate for Olberic to just look at him, to remember that he too was there. Now, he would do anything for Olberic to stop. To forget. The longer he looked at Cyrus’s pale, trembling features, the sooner he was sure to realise that he was not Erhardt. Not even close. 

“Cyrus,” Olberic began, his voice low, almost hurt. Cyrus braced himself, but they were once again interrupted by Alfyn’s bustling hands. The Gods must have heard him, just this once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I hope you enjoy this chapter! tomorrow is my last day at work until next Monday, so I am hoping to update again by the end of the week. Thank you all for your feedback so far, I love hearing from you all and appreciate all the feedback.


	5. 5. Sanctuary

The others awaited their return nervously, although some showed it more than others. Ophilia and Linde came bounding towards them in a dust cloud as they approached town, Primrose still wrapped around Cyrus in an unspoken agreement to keep him from stumbling back like a drunkard. Therion didn’t move from where he was lent against the inn wall, although he straightened at the sight of them, at Alfyn returning unscathed. H’annit reached them just after Ophilia and Linde. She swept Primrose’s damp fringe off of her face to check for injuries, and once satisfied, her eyebrows raised at the sight of Cyrus practically slumped over her, at the sight of Erhardt in conversation next to Olberic, occasionally batting Alfyn’s tonics away from himself. She didn’t have eyes for men, she seemed to be more surprised that Olberic hadn’t slain him.

“Glad to see your all in one piece,” Therion said once they were in earshot, eyeing the newcomer under his mask of silver hair, “although you’ve certainly seen better days.” He added with a smirk, drawing his attention to Cyrus who stumbled up the steps to the inn. 

“I am uninjured,” Cyrus told him through gritted teeth, releasing himself from Primrose’s steady grip. Therion’s eyebrows grazed his hairline – 

“In body, or in pride?” he asked, eyes sliding lazily over to where Erhardt stood next to Olberic. 

The only response he could muster was a tired flicker of magic as Primrose told Therion to ‘knock it off’. 

He was about to stagger into the sanctuary of the inn when Erhardt cleared his throat. 

“I would like to thank you all for your aid in taking down the Lizardmen,” he announced, his voice stronger than it was post-battle. Confidence rumbled off of his tongue in full force. Cyrus remained rooted to the spot; eyes fixed on the door handle. 

“Ah, shucks! It was no trouble,” Alfyn said, “I’m just glad we could help out!” 

“We should reconvene later at the tavern, the least I can do to thank you is buy you all an ale.” 

Cyrus almost groaned. Something he was certain he had never done before. He shook himself and turned to face them, conscious not to look as impolite as he felt. 

“I’ll take you up on that!” Alfyn said eagerly as Tressa nodded next to him, equally as enthusiastic. Erhardt grinned at the response, and Olberic more so next to him. Cyrus wished he still had Primrose to support him. He looked over to her, she now had her arm hung loosely around H’annit’s waist, watching Erhardt hungrily. 

“I don’t see how I could refuse,” she grinned, causing H’annit to stir slightly next to her. 

“We can pretend I helped out and you can buy me an ale anyway,” Therion said, a slither of his rare cheeky smile crossing his lips. He watched Cyrus out of the corner of his eye as he said it though, and kept watching him as Erhardt responded – 

“Of course, any friend of Olberic’s is a friend of mine!” 

Cyrus blinked, looking over at Olberic who did not protest at the words but merely smiled, gazing at Erhardt as if he were the morning sun. He might as well have been. But then he turned to Cyrus and his smile tugged into a frown as he waited for Cyrus to say something, to do something. Shame twitched in his stomach; he must seem awfully rude. 

“That would be most kind of you,” Cyrus said quietly, the words tasting bitter in his mouth. He forced himself to look at Erhardt, mustering up something close to a polite smile, which Erhardt returned. But it was different, less sure than the expression he had given the others. Even Therion. Cyrus felt the shame creep up his chest and hang over him like a shadow. He was not one to behave like this. He never had been. Olberic was still frowning at him, watching him carefully. Cyrus knew that the logical thing to do would be to force himself to relax, converse with the others, to thank Erhardt properly but… he took a breath into his lungs that still felt like ice and his knees gave a warning buckle underneath him. All he could offer was a stiff nod in their direction before he escaped into the shade of the inn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I managed to get this update out quicker that I thought I would do, but it is a slightly shorter chapter. I'm hoping to update again in the next few days. Thank you all for reading, I hope you are all enjoying it.


	6. 6. Scrutinise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cyrus is trying and so is Therion.

He didn’t go back to his room, even though his bones begged for him to lay down, to rest. No, he shared the room with Olberic. Two twin beds pushed together, just as they did in every room they shared. He couldn’t face being alone with Olberic. Not that it mattered, as he had probably gone to Erhardt’s Wellspring home to discuss their circumstances. Cyrus tried not to dwell on it as he retreated to the inn’s private study. It was a small and dusty and many of the tomes were outdated but still, sitting in silence among the sun-bleached leathers of the tomes gave him the most peace he had felt since arriving in the oasis town. He flipped idly through one, skim reading it without knowing the title. Something about desert herbs. He pondered giving it to Alfyn but as soon as the thought entered his mind it slipped away again. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been this unfocused. He let the time pass quietly, and when he finally brought himself to glance out of the window the sky was stained the colour of grapefruit with the sun starting to simmer below the horizon. He wondered when the others would be meeting at the tavern. The angle of the sun suggested they would already be there. Would his presence go unnoticed? Cyrus’s paused, thumbing one of the tomes yellowing pages. With the way Olberic had looked at Erhardt, it likely would. Cyrus yanked another tome off of the shelf, coughing at the dust cloud it created. Upon splitting it open he discovered it was about swordsmanship. He snapped it shut and shoved it back onto the shelf.

“Not to your tastes, professor?” 

Cyrus jumped, feeling his heartbeat in his throat. Therion stood in the doorway, arms crossed and wearing a look of amusement to mask his concern. Cyrus wished he could place how long he had been standing there for, watching him. He could usually tell when he was being watched. 

“It didn’t contain the information I was searching for,” he said, hoarsely. 

“And what are you searching for, exactly?” Therion asked, leaning against the doorframe with his eyebrows furrowing together. 

“I –” 

“You should be resting. Or celebrating with the others.” 

“You presume you can tell me what I should be doing?” 

This got Therion’s eyebrows raised, flushing his face once again with amusement. Cyrus never bit back, never rose to Therion’s taunts if only to offer a counter argument. Therion had grown accustomed with pushing the professor’s seemingly limitless patience with no resistance. He strode into the room, looking down at the random assortment of tomes spread across the desk. 

“He’s worried about you,” Therion said quietly, eyes still skimming the unrelated notes and scribblings. 

“He is currently occupied with other matters,” Cyrus replied in a dismissive tone that didn’t suit him. 

“Matters which require your support.” 

Cyrus met Therion’s steely glare with anger uncoiling in his gut. 

“I hardly think so,” the words snarled off of his tongue, making Cyrus almost flinch at the sound of himself. Therion didn’t so much as blink. 

“Sparing Erhardt was no easy decision.” 

“I know that.” 

“Slaying him wouldn’t have been either.” 

The room filled with a short silence that stifled Cyrus. He looked down at one of the open tomes, reading and re-reading a single sentence without taking any of it in. 

“Why did you come here, Therion?” he asked eventually, the exhaustion in his bones creeping into his voice, his mind. 

“Because he’s worried about you,” Therion repeated in that deadpan voice of his. 

“And that’s something he informed you of, is it?” Cyrus asked, feigning sarcasm. 

“He didn’t need to tell me,” Therion hesitated, before he sighed and muttered; “it’s not just Olberic that’s worried.” 

Cyrus shivered at the wash of guilt that threatened to engulf him again. He kept his gaze fixed yet unfocused on the open tome, not daring to look up into Therion’s piercing stare. 

“I assure you that I am fine,” he said, wishing his voice was stronger that it was in that moment. 

Therion snorted, shook his head. 

“You’re just like Alfyn,” he chuckled, causing Cyrus to shoot him a quizzical look, “terrible liars, both of you.” 

Cyrus paused, not used to being so lost for words as Therion studied him with his arms folding across his chest. 

“I suppose you’re right,” Cyrus sighed finally in defeat. A ghost of a frown played on Therion’s features at the admission, but he didn’t falter, didn’t soften at all. 

“You should come with me to the tavern. Relax. Talk to him, and maybe take that free ale. It might do you some good.” 

Cyrus nodded, brushing the dust off of his clothes as Therion readied to leave, gesturing for Cyrus to follow. He paused as he approached the door, half looking over his shoulder, his face almost softening as he said – 

“A word of advice from a thief to a royal professor, stop feeling so… _sorry_ for yourself. It doesn’t suit you, at all.” 

Cyrus supposed that Therion was right. But some things were easier in concept than they were in practice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm managing to update much quicker than I originally thought! I had a lot of fun writing this chapter, I'm super interested in the relationship between Therion and Cyrus and the dynamic between them anyway, so I really enjoyed expanding on that here. As always, thank you for reading and for any feedback you have to offer!


	7. 7. Missing Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't mix alcohol and feelings, btw.

He kept what Therion said in mind as he entered the low-lit tavern. It was busy, but it was clear that the group making the most noise was his travelling companions, crowded around a large table with a collection of empty glasses mounting in the centre. Olberic spotted him enter and gave him a grin and a wave that told Cyrus he had had more than three ales and Cyrus almost giggled, if it weren’t for how close Erhardt was sitting next to him. He took a seat in-between Primrose and Therion and across from Ophilia, who was sipping a small glass of wine and listening intently to Alfyn drunkenly recite some story about his friend Zeph. Therion rested his chin on his hands as he half-listened, watching Alfyn with a look of affection that Cyrus doubted would ever be roused from looking at anyone else. Erhardt was stationed at the other end of the table, telling Tressa and H’annit tales of the barracks, of his and Olberic early days in training and battle mishaps. Cyrus felt caught between the two conversations, catching bits of each and nodding occasionally to look as if he were in some way participating.

“It’s good of you to join us, Cyrus!” 

He was yanked out of his half-daze by Erhardt’s voice sending a jolt through him, all eyes fixed on him, watching, waiting to see how he would respond. He resisted the urge to squirm. 

“I apologise for my absence, I had… matters to attend to.” 

A poor lie, but it seemed sufficient enough. Alfyn cleared his throat and sparked up his side of conversation again, although he could still feel Therion and Primrose stealing glances towards him, and couldn’t hide from Olberic, who watched him carefully as he drank. 

“Indeed! Olberic tells me you are quite the accomplished scholar. With a mind as sharp as yours I assume you must always have matters to study and report.” 

The sunny look on Erhardt’s face prickled Cyrus’s skin with guilt. Erhardt looked relaxed, comfortable, and so openly friendly that it caused a slick of shame to dampen the back of his neck. He didn’t deserve Erhardt’s eagerness to please after how he had acted. 

“Did he now? Ah, I… well, I wouldn’t say _accomplished_ …” 

“You’re Princess Mary’s personal tutor, Cyrus,” Therion cut in, those silver eyebrows creeping up to his hairline once again. _Stop feeling sorry for yourself._

“Indeed, at least I was until recently. I am currently on a sabbatical of sorts.” 

“It must be an important research project to pull you away from such a duty,” Erhardt said, leaning in with genuine interest. 

All eyes were on him again. Everyone knew about Therese. About the rumour. He had tried to keep it somewhat quiet, but Odette couldn’t contain herself at the news and had told them all laughing over pints back in Quarrycrest. Cyrus almost faltered as he looked over at Erhardt’s expecting gaze. He didn’t have the heart to tell him that it had been a forced sabbatical. 

“One could say so, I will spare you the details.” 

“Wow Professor, I never thought I would see you so willing to spare someone of a lecture!” Tressa beamed, her cheeks pink with alcohol. This rose a laugh out of everyone, even Olberic, and although Cyrus had gotten accustomed to the endearing teasing that came between friends, it still stung a little bit. He rubbed the back of his neck and forced himself to laugh with them. 

“Here, let me buy you that ale I promised,” Erhardt said once the laughter had died and the storytelling had resumed. He stood and made for the bar before Cyrus had a chance to thank him. 

He resumed being quiet, hanging somewhere between the conversations as his teeth bit down on his bottom lip. A nervous habit he thought he left somewhere in boyhood. He could feel Olberic watching him, both of them trapped somewhere in a silence unfelt by the others. Tasting copper on his tongue, he forced himself to meet Olberic gaze to offer him some sort of reassurance. He wiped the blood from his lip and smiled which was met with a frown. Olberic opened his mouth to break their silence – 

“An ale, as promised,” Erhardt slid the mug across the table towards Cyrus, careful not to spill any of its contents. 

“You have my thanks,” Cyrus said, pulling his attention away from Olberic in a way that shattered something within himself. 

“Nay, you have mine,” Erhardt resumed his place next to Olberic and turning to him, “this man can wield magic like no one I have previously encountered,” he told Olberic, causing Cyrus to take a gulp of ale to stop the blood rushing to his cheeks. 

“You are far too kind, Ser Erhardt,” Cyrus said once he had successfully swallowed his too-large mouthful of ale and recovered from the cramp it had caused his throat. “Although really my magic was obsolete, given your skill with a blade, I have no doubt that you would have put an end to the battle with ease regardless.” 

“You underestimate yourself!” Erhardt laughed, taking a swig of his ale and resting his arm on Olberic’s shoulder. The motion made Cyrus dizzy, the two of them looked as they must have done all those years ago, drinking after a hard day of training. As comfortable with each other as if they could see directly inside the mind of the other and read them like a well-read tome. Except… except Erhardt’s had burnt some of his own pages. Had hidden such a vital part of himself. Had Olberic forgotten already? Or did it just not matter now, now that Erhardt was here and smiling and slipped back to Olberic’s side like a missing puzzle piece. Therion pulled himself away from admiring Alfyn and Cyrus could feel his eyes flitting between the three of them, almost apprehensively. Olberic didn’t flinch under Erhardt’s arm, but he didn’t lean into it either. He was watching Cyrus as if there was not another soul in the room. Their silence threatened to engulf them again but Olberic fought against it – 

“Cyrus is the most skilled scholar and caster that I have ever met,” he didn’t take his eyes off of Cyrus as he spoke wearing an expression Cyrus couldn’t read. Cyrus forced more ale down his throat in response. 

“Skilled yes, but controlled? Not at all,” Therion interjected before turning to face Cyrus, “sometimes I don’t think, even for all your smarts, that you really understand how powerful you are. You definitely underestimate yourself.” 

Cyrus was aware that he still had a long way to go with understanding social interactions, especially social interactions that included Therion. But he felt his chest warm as he came to the realisation that Therion had probably just said the kindest thing he had ever said to him, and probably ever would say to him. Therion’s pale skin tinged momentarily with pink and he cleared his throat before looking over at Erhardt. 

“He nearly incinerated me once, the bastard.” 

This was met with hearty laughter and Cyrus felt the blood rush back to his cheeks. He drained the last of his ale, and before he could even stand to get himself a new one Erhardt had gone in his place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! A bit of a longer chapter this time! I'm really enjoying writing this fic and I hope you are all enjoying reading it. Don't worry, the next chapter will bring some one-on-one Olberic and Cyrus talk. They have a long overdue conversation coming.  
> (a small side note is that I notice in a lot of fanfic that Tressa can't drink, but in my understanding Tressa is 18, and here in the UK that is prime legal drinking age, so I'm allowing her a pint).


	8. 8. Moon Drunk.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The long awaited heart-to-heart.

He very rarely got drunk. He was, despite what some of his companions assumed, a relatively experienced drinker. He could hold his alcohol much better than any of his colleagues back at the Academy, but then again, he was much younger than any of his colleagues back at the Academy, which possibly gave him an unfair advantage. At first, he wasn’t sure if the room was swaying because he was so exhausted, but his collection of empty ale mugs before him told him otherwise. He didn’t understand how he had managed to drink so much. He supposed he should stop. Conversations still fluttered around him, but the words of his companions felt distant, obscured, as if he were listening to them from the next room. Tressa was telling tales, there were mentions of Lizardmen, Ophilia was scolding Therion for something, and Olberic and Erhardt were talking quietly between themselves, about someone called Werner. Cyrus cleared off the dregs of his ale and set the mug back down harder than he meant to. He looked towards the bar, straining to keep his vision straight. He supposed he should stop. But he stood, legs like that of a new-born deer, and began to wobble over to the bar. A hand pressed against his chest, stopping him in his tracks.

“Where do you think your going?” Therion asked, although it was H’annit’s hand that rested firmly on his chest, her eyes on him like blades. 

“My apologies, would either of you care for a drink?” he asked, hoping he sounded okay, controlled. Perhaps the hiccup at the end ruined it. He supposed he should stop. He looked back to the bar. 

“You’ve had enough.” 

Cyrus blinked at them, at H’annit’s stern face, and Therion’s look of concern and amusement he seemed to wear only when speaking to Cyrus. 

Once again, he had no words. 

Instead, he managed another hiccup that send a shockwave through his body. He really should stop now. He looked back over at the bar, and then over at Olberic, at Erhardt. Both of them still deep in conversation and Cyrus frowned, shuddering as he felt everything from jealousy to burning guilt churn in his stomach. He observed them get lost in each other as they spoke, Erhardt glowing golden under the tavern candle light. Cyrus pulled his cloak tighter around himself, tasting copper from his bottom lip. He hiccupped again. 

“I suspect that you are right,” he said slurring, trying to focus on the smudged image of Therion before him, “I think I will be on my way now.” He felt a hand try and grip at his sleeve, but they weren’t quick enough. He barely registered his numb legs carry him stumbling across the tavern, out the door, and into the cool desert night. 

* 

Cyrus sat, legs dangling over the oasis pool that centred the town. He couldn’t bring himself to go inside, into the empty room at the empty inn. He shrunk into his cloak, hoping it would drown him, or at least offer him some comfort from the nip of the night air. He wasn’t entirely ungrateful to the cold, the chill eased the thumping in his skull and the world seemed to spin just a little bit less out here. The town sat in silence around him. He was just out of sight and earshot of tavern and no sound came from any of the surrounding houses, their windows blank with drawn curtains. He thanked whichever Gods were listening for the silence.

A hiccup escaped from him again. He hadn’t been able to regain control over them yet and he was glad that no one was around to hear him, to see him like this. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the water beneath him, water that looked like dark glass glinting under the moon. He looked much less ravishing. His hair unkempt, his skin paled and blotchy with dark curls forming under his eyes and dried blood crusting on his bottom lip. He stared at himself for a moment, watching as he tried and failed to restrain yet another hiccup. If Erhardt was the sun, Cyrus was some distant flickering star, clinging to his position in the night sky with desperation. His reflection frowned at him and his hands shot up to his hair as he tried to set at least something right about himself. But his hands shook, and his cheeks grew pink with embarrassment at his own desperation, at the foreign, bitter taste of how it felt to be so unsure of himself. He squeezed his eyes shut, covered them with his palms and rubbed, trying to erase the image of Erhardt from his mind. Trying not to think about how dull, how uninviting he must seem in comparison.

Another hiccup. He swore. There was a surprised chuckled from somewhere behind him that nearly made him fall into the water in shock. 

His vision was blurred, from the alcohol or from his palms he wasn’t sure. It took him a moment to get a clear image of the man before him. Tall, dark, blue tunic. He knew it was Olberic before he could make out his features. 

“I did not think you to be one for profanities,” Olberic said lightly. 

“I apologise,” Cyrus rasped. 

“No, don’t,” Olberic lowered himself down next to Cyrus, who was still blinking rapidly to regain full use of his vision. They sat quietly for a moment, the still desert air almost suffocating Cyrus as he stared down at his reflection while desperately trying to avoid looking at Olberic’s. The silence was interrupted by a hiccup that took them both by surprise. Cyrus covered his face and groaned, feeling the heat of his cheeks under his fingers. Olberic breathed a laugh, his hand finding its usual place upon Cyrus’s shoulder. Cyrus nearly recoiled at first, his face still prickling with embarrassment, but he leaned into the touch, letting Olberic’s hand then drift from one shoulder to the other, his arm draping around Cyrus’s back and pulling him in closer. 

“It would appear that Erhardt got me drunk,” Cyrus murmured into his hands. 

“That’s Erhardt’s way of making friends.” 

“That is slightly concerning.” 

Olberic laughed at that. A deep and hearty rumble that vibrated through Cyrus’s ribcage. Cyrus hadn’t heard that laugh since they had arrived in Wellspring, since they had seen the oasis town begin to approach them on the horizon and the realisation of just how close Erhardt was began to sink in, weighing on Olberic’s shoulders with each step. Cyrus wasn’t sure if it were he who had earnt that laugh or the alcohol, but he pulled his face out of his hands and looked up at Olberic, who was watching him with a soft smile. 

“Primrose told me that you outdid yourself today.” 

“Did she now? I admit I did miscalculated the situation.” 

Olberic let out a soft hum before saying, “you must be tired.” 

Cyrus pondered this for a moment. The ale had almost caused him to forget the aching of his muscles, but sure enough he felt the grumble in his bones as he shifted closer to Olberic. “Tired, yes. I would guess that the ale helped it along,” he sighed, hiccupped, “I suspect you must be tired as well.” 

“Aye, today has been… rather demanding,” Olberic mused, his calloused hand still remaining firmly on Cyrus’s shoulder, squeezing him gently. 

Cyrus caught a glimpse of Olberic’s reflection. He did look tired. There was no trace of pink alcohol tinge on his olive skin, if anything he looked paler than he usually did. Older. Cyrus tasted copper on his tongue again. 

“I’m sorry,” he found himself saying in barely more than a whisper. Olberic’s reflection turned to his, eyes questioning. 

“Whatever for?” 

He didn’t answer right away, which kindled the growing concern on Olberic’s face as Cyrus was never shy of an answer for anything. Cyrus stared silently at his own reflection as he tried to summon the words, his eyebrows furrowing and his vision beginning to blur again. 

“I’ve been selfish,” he murmured eventually, “I should have been there for you today. I should have… should have given your feelings more consideration and I…” 

The image of Erhardt’s golden hair and glowing featured filled his mind, as did the look of sorrow that had painted Olberic’s face at the sight of him. He could once again smell of sweat, blood and dust that filled the cave to accompany the sound of their blades meeting. Cyrus squeezed his eyes shut and pulled away from Olberic, standing up with a stumble. 

“I should have been better; I should be better. For that I apologise.” 

Olberic rose slowly but Cyrus couldn’t bring himself to look at him. He didn’t want Olberic to see his complete lack of composure as he stood shaking and blinking back drunk tears with desperation. Olberic pressed both hands on Cyrus’s shoulders, steadying him yet holding him at a slight distance as to speak to him clearly. 

“I understand that today was difficult for you too, Cyrus,” Olberic said gently, trying to coax Cyrus into looking at him. 

“That doesn’t matter, it shouldn’t have been about me, it should have been about you and – ” 

Cyrus bit down on his tongue to force the sob back down his throat, “I put myself and my feelings before you and yours.” 

“I do not see it like that.” 

“You try too hard to see the good in people.” 

“With that in mind, do you believe I should have slain him?” Olberic asked then, his voice too quiet. Too cautious. 

Cyrus pulled back out of Olberic’s grip at the question, tripping over his own feet as he did so. 

“Of course I don’t!” he hissed, “do you really believe me to be that jealous, that bloodthirsty?” 

Olberic shook his head, “you know that I do not.” 

Cyrus stifled a hiccup in a way the hurt his chest. He swallowed hard, looking at Olberic but not meeting his eyes. 

“I do understand. It may not seem as such, but I understand why you had to see him, why you had to dual him. I understand why you spared him,” Cyrus said in a shaky voice to Olberic who stood in complete silence. “He is dear to you, even after his betrayal. I know that. I’m proud of you for sparing him, for making that choice,” he didn’t manage to swallow the hiccup that interrupted him momentarily. “I behaved poorly today because I was scared. Even if he did not have such an exquisite appearance, I fear that I still could not compare to him in your eyes.” His lip was bleeding freely now, staining his shirt sleeves as he fought to keep the tears from his face. 

A range of emotions flittered across Olberic’s features, causing Cyrus’s brain to reel as he tried desperately to read them. Eventually he settled on a blend of confusion and a sorrow similar to the one he wore when facing Erhardt. 

“Why on earth would you think that?” he asked, taking a step towards Cyrus. Cyrus blinked. 

“Well, because, because it’s _Erhardt_ ,” Cyrus said, unable to understand why he would need to elaborate further. Olberic did not seem to accept this as an answer and merely stood there like a patient student, waiting for Cyrus to explain. 

“The two of you have grown together, fought besides each other. You know each other’s mind and skills. You have a world in common with each other,” Cyrus paused, sucking in a breath and debating momentarily whether or not to continue, he did, but much quieter. “I know what he means to you. I know you love him.” 

His mouth was as dry as the sand beneath his feet. He didn’t want to look at Olberic, couldn’t bare the confirmation of it all. If it were to be this way, he wanted it to be as painless as possible, for it to be over swiftly and for Olberic to just sever the connection. He could bare it, he told himself, as he fought to keep himself steady. He couldn’t tell if it was he who was trembling or the ground beneath him. He was so tired, so tired… 

Cyrus became engulfed then in a hug the wrapped him in the scent of musty pine mixed with desert sweat and ale. He froze for a moment, not understanding but grateful all the same before he let his limbs relax and sagged into Olberic’s embrace, his face burying into Olberic’s chest. 

“I’m beginning to think that Therion was right about you,” Olberic said, Cyrus would have pulled out of Olberic’s arms to shoot him a quizzical look if he had had the energy, “even for all your smarts, you can be shockingly oblivious.” 

Cyrus did pull away at that, as much as the embrace allowed and looked up at Olberic, unable to hide the hurt on his face. Olberic sighed, breathed a laugh and reeled him back in. 

“I loved Erhardt, yes. But that was eight years ago. Much has changed in eight years.” 

Olberic let his fingers drift up the back of Cyrus’s neck and into his hair as he spoke. It calmed Cyrus just enough to ask, albeit rather quietly – 

“Have your feelings changed in eight years?” 

Olberic laughed then, shaking Cyrus with the motion. 

“My feelings on Erhardt seem to change every second. But I can tell you that I will never feel for him the way that I did. Going back to that would be impossible now,” Olberic stilled for a moment, laughter giving way to something more serious, “although where my feelings on him will eventually settle, I cannot say. It can never be the same. It will never be how I feel for you.” 

Cyrus thought upon this, still not daring to let go of the unease in his chest. 

“Can I ask you something?” he murmured, his voice muffled against Olberic’s chest. 

“Of course.” 

“Why me, when you had someone like him?” 

Olberic gave him a squeeze that jarred the air in him before pulling away, resuming his grip on Cyrus’s shoulders to look at him clearly. 

“That is a question with many different answers,” he said softly. 

“Humour me.” 

Olberic considered this for a moment, each second of silence caused the tremors to creep further up Cyrus’s spine, caused the panic to dance with the alcohol still churning in his stomach. But then Olberic moved his hand to the side of Cyrus’s face, a thumb gently stroking his tear-damp cheek. 

“The simplest answer would be, I suppose, is because you are everything he is not. You are everything that I am not,” he took a breath and Cyrus almost felt the panic become replaced with guilt. He knew Olberic wasn’t comfortable being so forward in matters of heart. But Olberic continued; “you are quick-minded and openly compassionate. You speak both your mind and the truth and never stray from what you believe in. You can be slightly… naïve, but that ideal that you hold, on the world and your work, men like Erhardt and I seldom have that. When I am with you, I feel balanced, I feel completed. That is not something I ever experienced before meeting you.” 

Cyrus’s teeth chattered into his ruined bottom lip, but he barely noticed the pain as he let Olberic’s words sink under his skin and nestle into his memory. Olberic watched him with an air of caution, each moment Cyrus didn’t respond he seemed to grow more unsure. Cyrus reached up with his own hands, small and shaking, and cupped Olberic’s stubbled chin. For the first time that day he felt himself soften, felt a genuine smile spread easily across his bloody lips as some of the doubt in his chest disintegrated. 

“That,” he said, surprised by the confidence that filled his tired voice, “was a very good answer indeed.” 

Olberic stared at him for a second before he breathed out a laugh and winded Cyrus back in, inhaling the jasmine scent of his dark hair. Cyrus let himself laugh back. 

“So, you do not want me to learn how to wield a blade?” he asked into the blue of Olberic’s tunic pressed against his face. 

“No more than you wish for me to learn how to cast,” Olberic replied, “although if you ever did wish to learn I would be more than happy to teach you.” 

“I may yet take you up on that,” Cyrus said as he desperately tried to stifle a yawn. 

They stood there for a while, wrapped up in each other under the desert moon before Olberic fought against a yawn of his own. 

“I suggest we get you to bed,” he told Cyrus, giving him one last squeeze before pulling away. Cyrus almost protested, wanting to stay there engulfed in Olberic for just a little longer, but without Olberic’s support he was starkly reminded of how weak his legs felt, how the world seemed to swirl around him. 

“Agreed.” 

Cyrus’s feet felt like lead and his head was already beginning to pound from the creeping hangover. He took a step forward under buckling knees before he found himself being scooped up into Olberic’s arms, tutting as he cradled Cyrus with ease. At any other time, Cyrus would have protested being carried like a damsel. But after everything… he let himself be handled, was thankful for the closeness, his body purring with the motion of it. He rested his head into the crook of Olberic’s neck, unable to stop himself from drifting off like a child as he savoured the illusion of them being the only two people in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Sorry this update took a little longer, I've been busier than expected and this chapter turned out to be a lot longer than expected... hopefully that makes up for the slight wait! I want to say thank you so much for all for the feedback. I have one last chapter planned and hopefully will update again soon.  
> Any and all feedback is appreciated!


	9. 9.Teacup Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More fluff ahead.

His head hurt. He wasn’t brave enough to get up yet, so he lay with his eyes squeezed shut for he wasn’t sure how long, knowing that the sun pouring through the gap in the curtains would encourage his headache. The room sat silently around him. Olberic had already risen, leaving Cyrus to sprawl his limbs across the empty bed. Olberic was fond of the mornings and would often rise before anyone else. Cyrus, a night-owl, couldn’t say the same for himself. He eventually cracked his eyelids open, groaning as he forced himself to sit up. He wondered vaguely what the time was as he pulled himself out of bed, legs jolting as his feet hit the floor, stiff and complaining at the sudden movement. He would probably be weakened for a few days, he grimaced at the thought. Slowly he dressed, careful not to stoop too low or move too quickly. Despite the alcohol, his stomach felt settled, but he was more than aware of his tendency to become nauseous when hungover, and he didn’t feel like pushing himself. His scholar clothes brought him out in a sweat as he was ever aware of the growing heat of the day, so he dressed lighter than usual, discarding his waistcoat and cloak after ensuring his shirt wasn’t too creased.

The mirror in the washroom was unkind. He was dismayed at the paleness of his skin in contrast with the dark circles which still sat stubbornly under his eyes. He made a weak attempt to fix his hair before the grumbling of his stomach and the pounding in his skull demanded he go downstairs for some food and water. He cast one last look at himself before deciding that really, he didn’t much care, before heading for the inn’s private kitchen. 

Primrose and Therion sat in the dining room that lead to the kitchen, they were chattering idly over a deck of cards as Cyrus entered, causing them to look over at him wearing matching grins. 

“Good morning, professor,” Primrose said innocently, “how do you fare this morning?” 

Therion chuckled into his teacup, watching Cyrus over the rim. 

“I think you know full well what the answer to that question is,” Cyrus replied, unable to keep his fingers from massaging his forehead as he spoke. “Pray tell, is there anything left over from breakfast?” 

“Go take a look, I don’t think you’ll be disappointed,” Therion said, gesturing lazily to the kitchen door while wearing a sly grin. 

The kitchen was a small room with small windows, and the heat of it hit Cyrus as soon as he pushed open the door. A flame from the stove licked the bottom of the iron kettle and Olberic stood watching it, beads of sweat decorating his furrowed forehead as he did so. He looked mildly surprised to see Cyrus standing in the doorway, dressed down in a shirt with his hair loose. 

“I was going to bring you breakfast,” he started, “I didn’t think that you would be up yet, considering…” he trailed off, giving Cyrus a once over. 

“Considering I acted as a common drunkard last night?” 

“Well, I wouldn’t say _common_.” 

Therion crackled into laughter from the next room despite Primrose’s shushing. Eavesdropping as ever. Cyrus stepped into the sweltering kitchen and closed the door behind him. The kettle began to hiss angrily on the fire and Olberic lifted it with a cloth to pour into a floral teacup, filling the room with the aroma of rich plum tea. 

“How do you feel this morning?” Olberic asked, carefully handing him the filled cup, Cyrus took it gratefully. 

“As to be expected, nothing breakfast won’t fix.” 

“And how are you feeling about… about everything else?” Olberic asked, busying himself with preparing breakfast. 

“Slightly shamed from my behaviour yesterday, but better.” 

Olberic looked up at that, his mouth dancing somewhere between a smile and a frown. 

“I want to thank you for being so patient with me,” Cyrus continued, slowly clearing the space between them as he did so, “I know I can be perplexing at the best of times.” 

Olberic sighed and brushed Cyrus’s limp fringe out of his face with a smile, the tips of his fingers against his forehead felt as if they were pulling some of the tension out of his skull. Cyrus leaned into the touch with his eyes sliding shut. 

“I would be lying if I said that I didn’t find your perplexing nature endearing,” Olberic hummed, “it is my pleasure, Cyrus.” 

With that Olberic planted a gentle kiss upon Cyrus’s forehead, which brought with it relief akin to venom being drawn out of a wound. Cyrus shuddered at the touch, unable to suppress the small groan of pleasure from his tongue. Olberic chuckled, offering him one more kiss before guiding him into the now empty dining room to await his breakfast. 

They took opposite seats in-between teacups, toasted bread and an array of exotic fruits that Cyrus was excited to try. Cyrus was grateful for the coolness of the room in comparison to the stifling kitchen. The large windows were thrown open to let in a soft breeze that ruffled his hair as he gulped down his tea. They chatted about idle matters for a while before the conversation turned to Werner, the man who orchestrated the fall of Hornburg, and what needed to be done about him. They would put the matter forward to the rest of the group before going to Riverford to face the man. A man that even Erhardt feared. Cyrus steadied his stomach and tried not to think about it. 

“We’ve faced worse Cyrus, I wouldn’t worry yourself,” Olberic reassured him, catching the way Cyrus’s lips had thinned throughout the conversation. 

“Have we really?” 

“I would wager that the hell-beast your former employer turned himself into is worse than any man with a sword.” 

Cyrus laughed before he grimaced. The image of Yvon mutating into that thing forcing itself back into his mind. He suppressed a shiver before draining the last of his tea. 

“Perhaps you’re right,” he mused, “what other business do we have in Wellspring?” 

“I believe Therion has some business with the Dragonstones, but gods only know with him,” Olberic hesitated before continuing; “and I must speak again with Erhardt for further information on Werner.” 

There was a pause between them, Cyrus busied himself with nibbling a slice of toast. He swallowed and said finally – 

“I suppose I should speak with Erhardt as well.” 

Olberic tilted his head but said nothing. 

“I must apologise to him for my poor behaviour yesterday. It was really unacceptable.” 

Olberic laughed lightly and shook his head. 

“You did not come off as badly as you believe. It wouldn’t matter anyway, Erhardt was expecting more resistance than he received.” 

“Not from me, I wager.” 

“Erhardt is a smart man, he could see what you mean to me, and I to you.” 

“That doesn’t excuse how I acted,” Cyrus sulked, pulling a face that cause Olberic to tut. 

“He is not what I was expecting,” Cyrus said then, brow furrowing as he spoke, “I was expecting someone, someone cold. Dishonourable,” he frowned into his empty teacup, before he admitted quietly, “I really wanted to hate him.” 

The air sat heavy around them before Olberic’s sigh broke the silence. 

“As did I.” 

Cyrus looked up at that, studying Olberic carefully. His face had been washed of the desert dust and sweat, and the creases across his forehead had relaxed slightly. But his eyes still looked tired, they still looked stressed. 

“How do you feel about it all this morning?” Cyrus asked, almost cautiously. 

Olberic was quiet for a moment, mulling it over as he glanced out of the window, over to his sword propped up against the wall and then back at Cyrus’s soft yet sharp features. 

“I feel more confident in the choice that I made, that it was the right choice,” he paused, looked back over to his blade, “I am glad that we fought. I am grateful that the choice was there for me to make because…” he trailed off as he searched for his words. Cyrus was more than happy to help him finish – 

“Because now you know that you did the right thing. You were presented with a difficult decision, and you made the right choice. You tested your ideals and you succeeded.” 

Olberic nodded, the stress in his eyes clearing slightly, “exactly, yes. I’ve been searching for answers for eight years and now I have them. I can be confident in my ideals.” 

Cyrus beamed at him, reaching across the table to fold Olberic’s large, calloused hands into his smaller ones. 

“I knew that you would do the right thing. I must admit, approaching Wellspring I did not know what the outcome would be. But whichever situation unfolded, whichever choice you made, I knew that you would not do so lightly. I knew that whatever you did, you would know it to be right.” 

Olberic softened as his smile grew. His pressed Cyrus’s hands in his and squeezed. 

“You have far too much confidence in me.” 

“Absolutely not! If anything, you have too much confidence in me.” 

Olberic shook his head, exasperated but laughing before he stood, the legs of his chair scraping quietly across the floor with the motion. 

“Come, we should go and see the others. I worry over Therion and this Dragonstone business he has got himself tangled in,” Olberic made his way around the table and took Cyrus by the hand, gently helping him to his feet. “If you are feeling up to it, I am sure he will be in need of a skilled caster.” 

Cyrus looked smug at the flattery but lent in, a hand resting on Olberic bicep. 

“I may require one more cup of plum tea, but then I shall be ready to put my skills back to use.” 

“I don’t want you straining yourself like yesterday,” Olberic said, with a note of seriousness in his otherwise soft voice. 

“Don’t fret, I can look after myself.” 

Olberic’s eyebrows raised as he wrapped his arms loosely around Cyrus’s waist, “can you now?” he asked playfully, causing Cyrus to mock offence, “you must admit, you have a habit of getting yourself into tricky situations.” 

“Well then, I am counting on you to protect me,” Cyrus smiled before reaching up to steal a kiss on his tiptoes. Olberic laughed and kissed him back hard. 

“Always,” he said, giving him a squeeze before pulling away and heading for the kitchen to re-boil the kettle, leaving Cyrus flustered and pink-cheeked, but ready for whatever the day would bring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! This is the last chapter, sorry it took a little longer to upload, I've had a busy week at work. I just want to say a big thank you to all of you for reading this fic and for all the lovely comments and feedback you have given me. I may write another Octopath fic again soon given I have the time.  
> I hope you all enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thanks again!

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fanfic I have written in years. I am taking a break from poetry and trying to build my fiction skill back up, and I figured the perfect way of doing so would be through fanfic. So please, any feedback you can offer me will be greatly appreciated.  
> I hardly see ANY Cyrus/Olberic fics, which makes me sad, as I love the pairing. So I decided it only right that I add to the collection myself. (That being said, if anyone has any Cyrus/Olberic fic suggestions, PLEASE throw them my way!)  
> Thank you all, I hope you enjoy the fic xoxo


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